Blueness, did you hear about that poor man who got shot down in the hills by the ABQ police? My other friends and I were all very upset. There are people trying to arrest the ABQ police department now. It’s horrible. Firing squads dressed up in police suits.

Blueness, he was just up there camping in the hills, because it got to be too much for him. And our delightful asshole culture sent a bunch of dudes up there after him with a trained attack dog and assault rifles.

Fucking shot him down. He turned away. I’ve had friends who were that upset. They fucking shot him down. He could have been a good friend of mine from earlier back in my life. They fucking shot him down. “Firing Squad Dressed Up In Police Costumes.”

Who knows who that man was? He could have been a lover, a painter, an artist. He could have been our best friend.

I love how you hew to non-violence, Blueness. That’s a tough road to travel.

And I say: how can I not hew to non-violence?

If I do not, then someday, in spirit, or in flesh, I will be up there, down there, just like them, them ABQ law-jockeys, knuckles drug all the way into the ground, fucking shooting someone down, because s/he did, basically, not sufficiently walk, like me, talk, like me.

and i will hang my headhang my headlow

And I cannot do that, because, all those other all and everys, they’reme.

I know this. Whenever I ever encounter any other being on this, or any other, planet—animal, mineral, vegetable—I know that being is me.

How can people not see this?

How can people hurt and kill themselves?

Beats me. Beats us all. All us all.

I have arisen not from the dead. But from the living. And I am not a voice crying in the wilderness. For there is no winter here. No dark. No despair. The lights are going on in my house. For there is no darkness anywhere. I have all my lights on. And it is my own face, I see in the blazing windows of all the houses on earth.

Once upon an all and every, we were all of one undifferentiated consciousness, spanning all of space and time. Anything we wanted to be, any place we could be, we would be. All and every one of us. And always together.

Somewhere along the line, it was determined—probably by somebody like Satan—that such shit was, well, boring.

It was all happy and wrapped and loving and snug and snuggly and all, but, like, where was the great wide open?

What might it be like if one could shed the other 400 trillion beings clinging to the brain-pan, and live a life just as a one?

And, from that, is where we, here on earth, get terms like “shrieking,” “ululating,” “rending their garments,” “biting through their tongues,” “scraping the shit off their skin with pot-shards,” “screaming till their lips bleed,” “blowing their brains out,” and other pleasantries.

I mean: think: why is the first thing a baby born into this world, do do, is cry?

Because that baby being, having moved from the collective consciousness, to the trapped caged lonely consciousness of singular, feels that hollowness and estrangement and alienation and radio silence, and then realizes: oh shit. I wanna go back.

All life. Of every human being. On this planet. Is about wanting to go back. To the undifferentiated cloud. To the great wide open.

All of everything every human has ever been about, here, is about that.

“Love,” always and every acknowledged in every culture as some sort of misty grail, is so acknowledged because it is the closest the scraped-off individualized human loonily marooned on this planet can get, to what it was, all and always. where they came from, where all were suffused in one, all were in touch, all were one.

Miep: the download, to this planet, from the collective to the individual: in this there are variables.

There are, like, the fucking rawboned mutant ruined Bill Gates 666 Windows downloads, which result in monsters like those ABQ cops, who feel no kin to anyone, ‘cept maybe pit bulls, and so slaver to kill, conquer, subdue, smile, smirk.

Whereas people like you and I, we are more suffused with something like the Eden-promise of Apple, when it was still but the gentle dream in Steve Wozniak’s soul, there in the puttering Palo Alto garage, long before the grasping money-souled Steve Jobs seized hold of it, and transformed it into Product.

It’s all going to be okay, Miep. Because we really are all one soul, and one being. And this all is just a temporary experiment, one disastrously launched upon because, up there in “heaven,” we got bored.

The purpose behind all this earthly suffering is that we want to be the one soul, like we used to be, but we also want to feel it individually.

That’s what all this all is all about.

In getting there, some of us incarnate as dumbshit pit bulls, like the ABQ cops. And some incarnate as people who, like you, pet tarantulas, and feel so much you can barely stand to wake each day.

We all, eventually, one by one, decided up there, that this was a good idea.

We have to trust that it really is.

I believe it is.

I believe we will all go again into the great wide open. And without bodies. Which is the way that we came here. But we will go back out with individual “minds.” Within the collective ones.

And I believe that, when we at last swirl really away, a la Childhood’s End, we will retroactively bring with us all incarnated corporeal beings ever sentenced to this planet.

Which is what, fumbling, people like Jesus and Buddha were trying to get to.

And now you know. Why, really, I no longer post on the cross of Daily Kos.

As neither do you.

you can takeall the tea in chinaput it in a big brownbag for mesail it right aroundall the seven oceansdrop it straight into the deep blue sea

“This wilderness has destroy me,” Clam de Paty mumbled. He felt too tired, too sad even to make his English precise. What he had mumbled was the truth: the American wilderness had destroyed him. He did not want to walk across it—not even one more mile. He did not want to write about its mountain men, its savages, its grizzly bears, its mountains. He had come to America a famous man, a veteran of the Grande Armee, a man who had won medals; was he not the most famous journalist in the most civilized country in the world? Yet now, thanks to his bosses—always greedy for new information—he was destroyed, broken, finished, ended, afflicted with a numb despair. True, they had found a good spring, had drunk their fill, had bathed many times, had rested. And yet, all around, the wilderness still yawned. Sante Fe was still hundreds of miles away. The nice young Monsieur Charbonneau could talk to him all he wanted about how easy the rest of the trip would be compared to what had already been endured, but young Monsieur Charbonneau was missing one big point: Clam de Paty no longer cared. The wilderness had finished him.